


Lunatic

by Sunshineditty



Series: Breath and Shadow [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Magical Realism, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something strange is going on ... who you gonna call?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh this episode had me in a dither (did Isaac and Allison have a moment?), tingly (I love Detective Stiles) and perturbed (I really didn't like the music and the attention placed on Derek's hand reaching out to the English teacher's). And since this series is from Stiles' point of view, I couldn't really add in anything about the stuff he didn't see, so don't expect any exposition about what's going on outside the hospital - other than the little tidbits sown in there resulting from my story weaving. As always, ***SPOILER ALERTS**

"You've been holding out on me."

Stiles shivered, his arms wrapped around his body. At least fifteen minutes had passed since his "fit," and he was as miraculously whole as he was before it started. 

"No, I don't-don't-know what the  _fuck_  that was!"

Peter's hand petted his hair, fingers combing through the longer strands and curving around his skull. It was oddly soothing, and Stiles fought not to lean into the touch; despite wiping his hands, there was still dried come on Peter's skin. 

"You still smell disgustingly human, so you haven't been bitten, yet I watched with my own eyes as you healed damage to your body no human could survive without bleeding out. And instead of bleeding, you glowed." The fingers stopped their placid motion and started tugging  _hard_. "Someone's been a very bad puppy and needs to be punished."

Strands of brown hair broke off as Stiles leaped away from Peter, scrabbling backwards on his elbows and butt as he kept his eyes on the lounging wolf. He had fallen into unconsciousness after the limits of his pain threshold was breached and awoke under Peter's careful eye lying on the couch. His clothes were unbloodied and still covering him, so the older man hadn't taken advantage of him while he was blacked out, but there was now a simmering violence barely leashed in Peter's body. 

"I don't think I wanna be punished by you."

"Oh, I'd make you like it, sweetheart. Sparks are notorious for their inclinations It explains so much about you."

The silky words were threaded with menace and it took a moment for Stiles to comprehend their meaning. 

"What do you mean, inclinations? What makes you think I'm a Spark?"

The husky laughter was nothing like the maddening cackle of before, but a liquid promise of sex. "I'm a werewolf. I can  _smell_  it all over you, under the rankness of mortality. You are dabbling in forces you don't understand."

Stiles stilled for a moment as his mind whirled faster than his physical body could keep up.

"How do you know what a Spark is?"

"What do you think Sparks are?"

"Why am I surrounded by people who constantly answer questions with questions?," he muttered in disgust.  

Peter leaned forward, his smaller frame seemingly much larger than normal. It could be a trick of the moonlight or the beginning of the change, Stiles wasn't sure. 

"Sparks are humans who carry the potential for magic. Werewolves are made of magic, so naturally Sparks are drawn to them. It used to be tradition for at least one or two Sparks to bond to a pack." Peter's voice lost the luster of seduction and settled into more familiar lecturing tone that Stiles knew drove Derek up the wall. "The Hale Pack, in its heyday, boasted the claiming of three such individuals." 

"Claiming?" Stiles was slightly ashamed of how his voice broke like it did when puberty first hit, but he was skeeved out by the way the word rolled out of Peter's mouth.

"Yes, Stiles,  _claiming_. Taking. Appropriation."

"Yes, yes, you know how to read a Thesaurus, thanks. I get the idea."

"No, I really don't think you do, Stiles. Sparks, while not rare, aren't exactly thick on the ground. And to think you might be a potential one." Peter slithered off the couch and crouched near Stiles who still hadn't gotten to his feet. "What did you do to Derek before he left? You touched him and while I know how much that gets your panties wet, you don't  _do_  that. So why now?"

Dr. Deaton was supposed to be the one who was teaching him, guiding him, yet he'd abandoned him at the first hint of trouble. Peter, on the other hand, was the ultimate role model for Handlebar Mustache Bad Guy, and Stiles  _did_ want to kill him dead permanently this time...except. 

 _Except_.

It was probably one of the most dangerous words in his vocabulary because it indicated a small percentage of his mind was not completely on board with the Kill Crazy Train idea. 

Derek was a beta turned reluctant Alpha who was never groomed for the spot. Oh, he'd never said as much, but Stiles could read the clues as easily as anyone else, and knew Laura was the only one given the guidance for her position. By that logic then, Derek didn't have the breadth of knowledge needed if his planning abilities were anything to judge by while Peter always seemed to hold all the cards. He was probably playing with a stacked deck, but ultimately he still had the necessary information Stiles so desperately wanted about what  _exactly_  was happening to him.

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

"Then will you show me yours if I show you mine?"

"You've already shown me yours and I don't need a repeat."

Peter leaned a little closer so their breaths mingled in the same small place. Stiles didn't move because he didn't want to give the wolf any advantage or sign he was uncomfortable.

"Oh, you  _will_  show me yours eventually. You won't be able to help it. And then you'll beg for mine."

Stiles reared back again, this time fleeing to the window. He couldn't disguise any of his baser emotions - fear and reluctant lust - but he could pretend he did.

"I've never shown any hint of magical abilities before so why  _now_  all of a sudden would I begin manifesting them now?"

Peter stalked forward as if to crowd him against the sill, but stopped instead, his head tilted in contemplation. "That's actually a very good question, Stiles. If we had any cookies I would reward you with one for thinking of something intelligent to ask."

His "Gee thanks," was ignored.

"Magic itself isn't good or bad; it's just there to be used like any other tool. The wielder's intent is what changes the nature of magic and shapes it into a weapon or a healing agent."

"So, if werewolves are made of magic, then they can access it and use it to make fireballs?"

"And your cookie is now taken away. Don't be foolish, Stiles! We literally change our shapes from man to animals; we're shifters born with the inherent magical ability so it's not something we  _do_  but something we just  _are._ However, if someone  _else_ , say a witch, needed a boost, they could tap into the magic that makes us  _us_."

"Are you saying then that rituals are another way to harness the magic?"

"Good, good. Yes. As I said, magic can take on all forms because it depends on the how and what the wielder is using it for. There aren't any specific rules to its use except you can't take or use more than your body can handle. Think of you being a carafe waiting to be filled and magic is the water. The vessel can only hold so much before it begins to overflow. Once overflow effect happens, so do bad things."

Stiles shivered at the darkness coating his words. Peter usually had a flare for dramatics, though this time he rather thought Peter was stressing the importance of power control.

"That's awesome to learn, and all, but what does it have to do with me being a potential Spark?"

"There are pockets of land where magic pools in concentrated areas. It's not unusual for those born in areas with active leylines to demonstrate a sensitivity to magic or latent ability."

"Lydia," Stiles breathed. Lydia, Scott, Jackson, and Stiles were all born and reared within the shelter of Beacon Hills - Lydia was immune to the Bite, Scott and Jackson became a werewolves, and Stiles himself demonstrated Sparkitude.  Stiles wondered if Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were also Hills-birthed; if so, it might account for the ease with their turning.

"Yes, though she's interesting in a completely different way."

Peter resumed his seat on the couch, though his keen gaze cut through the gloom in the room.

"I've answered your question, now answer mine."

Stiles nodded because fair was fair and Peter had gone above and beyond their proposed deal. "I was able to put a magic ring of Aconite around the club the night we went hunting for the Kanima so Dr. Deaton said he thought I might have a true Spark that needed to be nurtured and guided."

For a moment he was overwhelmed with bitterness at how abruptly it ended. Rationally he understood the vet might have a valid reason, but he couldn't help the feeling of betrayal at being dumped by his magic teacher. Of course, Dr. Deaton could be working behind the scenes with the Alpha Pack or on his own for some nefarious reason.

"Last week he had me use a focus because he said my brain was too wacky to achieve proper mediation without visual aid." Stiles shuffled his feet a little. "One of them was a protection ward - or at least I think so."

"Tsk, tsk, Stiles. Putting random sigils on Derek without his consent or knowledge. You're a boy after my own heart."

"But I don't understand how that could've caused my  _fit_."

"I don't know either, my boy, but I do intend to find out."

Just as Stiles started to ask what he meant by that somewhat ominous statement, his phone rang. This time, however, it wasn't Scott or Derek or even his dad; no, that special ring belonged to Lydia.  Part of him was excited there was proof she hadn't erased his number he'd stealthily programmed into her phone and the other half, the voice of reason, strongly urged caution and temperance. This night of horror wasn't over just yet.

"Lydia, what's up?"

"Stiles-Stiles- oh God, I've found a dead body."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia calls and Stiles comes running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm a little behind, but my personal life intruded and I'm getting back on track. I haven't watched this week's episode yet because I wanted to finish writing last week's chapter untainted.

"Answer the damn phone, Lydia!"

Not for the first time, Stiles cursed his jeep and her inability to go above 50 miles an hour despite his foot being pressed all the way down to the floor. He often thought his father had somehow jury-rigged the pedal so his son couldn't exceed the speed limit and he included the Sheriff in his cursing for his foresight, though he did immediately apologize just in case his father's omniscience kicked in.

He tried dialing Lydia's number again, but as before, she didn't answer, his call going straight to voice mail.

"You don't hang up on a person after saying you found a body and then don't answer the freakin' phone when the person calls back, Lydia,” he screeched after the beep. “Answer the freakin' phone! Again, just in case you didn't hear me the first three times, _answer your freakin' phone_ so I know if you're okay.”

He rounded the corner on three wheels, just thankful there weren't any cop cars around to slow his ass down. Derek's new loft (and that would never stop being strange to say or think) was only a ten minute drive to the Beacon Hills Public Pool, but Stiles couldn't help the rabbit-quick thump thump of his heart as those self-said ten minute dragged on as if two hours instead.

He'd already lost one girl he liked, and he would be damned if he lost Lydia Martin too. There just wasn't enough awesome in the world for a major contributor to be taken out so early in the game. Shaking his head at the sport reference creeping into his inner monologue, Stiles' face lit up when he saw the entrance to the pool's parking lot. It wasn't the best-looking facility during the day – what with the barely functioning pool self-cleaner – and it was entirely sketchy at night, which begged the question: _what in_ fuck _was Lydia Martin doing out here on a school night?_

Relief, gratitude, and anger warred for dominance when he spotted Lydia near the front, her small body wrapped in a bright green jacket. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, but while they were closer now than before, there was no remote chance in heaven _or_ hell she wouldn't knee him in the balls for being presumptuous. He rushed to her side and teetered to a stop, thankful her eyes were downcast and hadn't witnessed his gracelessness.

“Lydia! Lydia! Are you okay?”

“I'm okay,” she trembled, before nodding her head in the direction of the Lifeguard's chair near her, “-that over there not okay.”

Stiles chanced a look and even from this angle it looked like a dead body. Granted he hadn't seen many in his day, but the large pool of blood surrounding the base of the chair were good indicators he wasn't still breathing. His first instinct was to call Derek, but he immediately closed down that avenue of thinking, not the least because Derek was running around the Preserve right now playing a dangerous game of Hiding-Go-Seek in the dark with two feral wolves.

“Yeah, right, I'm gonna call my dad.”

He didn't want his dad involved in this particular mess except if he got called to _this_ scene there would be a less likely chance of him stomping around in the woods.

“I already called 911.”

“You called the police before you called me?”

Indignation swirled into the maelstrom of emotions already fighting for dominance in his mind. Why would she be stupid to involve them without Stiles or the wolves' go-ahead?

"I'm supposed to call you first if I find a dead body?"

"Yes!" Stiles shouted into her uncomprehending face, a small part of him gasping in horror at how he was treating Queen Lydia Martin of Stilinskiland, yet a much larger part was scrambling for a way to salvage this situation _before_ civilians mucked up his crime scene. He would've thought she'd think of him, or Allison, or hell Scott to call before ever dialing 911. If it looked supernatural, acted supernatural, it probably was of supernatural origin.

And given her recent issues with blanking out and finding dead bodies it made more sense to talk to someone with knowledge. Unfortunately it seemed Lydia wasn't operating on all Machiavellian cylinders which it made him suspicious as to what was influencing her now.

He knew Derek had dismissed the design burned into the girls' wrists as nothing, yet Stiles didn't believe it wasn't nothing. There was a reason the girl had tracked them down while searching for Scott. In fact, it was highly suspicious she even knew Allison and Lydia were connected to Scott for any reason. Stiles grabbed Lydia's arm, ignoring her protestations, and stared at the half-symbol marked on her flesh. He didn't recognize it, but then he was a new practitioner so it wasn't surprising.

A simple touch had done this - what if it wasn't a brand or a warning, but some type of sigil similar to what he'd done to Derek? If Peter's information was correct, that Sparks bonded to packs, it might explain his recent weird behavior in conjunction with Derek, Isaac, and even Peter himself. He wasn't close to any of them, yet tonight he felt as if he was almost responsible for them, hence why he drew the protection symbol on Derek's stomach. Maybe the stranger was somehow connected to the Alpha Pack, though working against them for some reason. Could she be a rogue Spark? If so, why did she mark the girls? And how did Scott figure into all of this?

"Let me go!" Lydia's panicked tone finally broke through Stiles' preoccupation and he snapped back, letting go of her wrist immediately. She was panting roughly and visibly trembling, a small pink tongue flicking over her lips; she wasn't the normal composed and haughty girl he worshiped from afar but a traumatized teenaged girl who was in over her head.

"Dude, I'm sorry, I - ah, sorry." He grabbed his phone from his pocket and quickly called Scott, hoping there would be enough reception wherever his best friend was. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time the other boy had ignored his call.

“A little busy right now, Stiles.”

"Scott! They might've killed someone."

Hopefully Scott hadn't hung up yet.

“You sure?”

Stiles stared at the dead boy, a portion of his throat severed. He couldn't exactly tell _what_ had been done to him, but it definitely looked nasty.

“Yup, throat ripped out, blood everywhere. Like the freakin' _Shining_ over here. If two little twin girls come out of the woods and start asking me to play with them forever and ever, I'm not going to be surprised.”

Scott ignored his witticism, as per usual. “Can you get a little closer and make sure it's them?”

“Make sure it's them? Scott, who else is going around ripping throats out?”

“Please just do it.” His words were tinged with a small growl, as if his wolf was rising to the surface. Stiles curled back his lip in response to the somewhat aggressive tone, but bowed his head in consternation as he realized his reluctance was due to it being _Scott_ telling him to do something instead of Derek. _What the fuck?_

He took a quick look at Lydia, but she was still huddled defensively into her coat and wasn't seemingly paying attention to the conversation. Stiles flexed his fingers then stepped closer to the body, barely able to see his throat through the blood. Holding his breath to avoid inhaling the rancid smell of death, he quickly scanned the rest, eyes catching on the gleam of silver on the limp hand closest to him. It looked like a one of those purity rings some of the more religious students wore, pledging their promise to God to remain pure until marriage. Frankly, Stiles didn't see the point but to each his or her own.

'Yeah, he's definitely dead with a nasty looking throat, Scott.”

“Hold on Stiles” Rustling noise as if Scott put the phone against his leg. “What Derek?”

“This doesn't make sense – the public pool is all the way over on the other side of the woods. We haven't tracked them anywhere near there.”

_Maybe you just missed the tracks, Big Guy? I know it's night and you have excellent vision, but maybe they just got the jump on you. But why would they kill someone here and leave the body before running back to the Preserve? How did they do that so fast?_

“Derek, they killed someone.”

_Death happens, Scott._

“How are they moving so fast?”

_Good question, Derek. Good question._

“Derek -”

“They can't be that fast on foot.”

_Can feral betas run faster than a pissed off Alpha?_

“They _killed_ someone. Some totally innocent kid is dead. And its our fault.”

_Oh fuck that noise, Scott. You don't have to take the blame for everything that happens. Some of it is random happenstance or just, you know, bad fucking luck._

Stiles listened to the conversation between the two wolves through his speaker and wished he was standing there with them. It didn't seem right for him to be left behind _again_ when the real action was going on out there while he was babysitting a corpse and Lydia. Scott seemed to realize the phone was still on because he pushed the off button without checking if Stiles was there or not.

“Rude, Scott. Just rude,” he muttered, even as he debated calling back, but opted to leave enough alone. Besides he now had his own problems in the form of his dad's cruiser pulling up behind his jeep and the ambulance a close second. It wasn't the first time he was discovered at a crime scene, and he really hated to see _the look_ on his dad's face again.

“Ms. Martin, are you okay?”

Lydia pulled herself out of whatever spiral her thoughts led her to and tried to smile up at the Sheriff, though Stiles could see the effort it cost her.

“Yes sir.”

“Can you tell me why you came out here so late?”

“I dunno,” she breathed, quickly retreating to her coat. “I was going to the store to get some meds, and -” Lydia shrugged clearly at a loss.

The Sheriff eyed her closely, his patient smile never wavering, but Stiles recognized the assessing look. His dad was determining if Lydia was either involved in the death and trying to throw off suspicion or an innocent bystander who happened to stumble upon a dead body in a close public pool late at night far from her house.

 _Fuck_ , it was suspicious no matter how you look at it. Unless you knew there was a supernatural element to the murder, Lydia was the perfect scapegoat. _Was that the reason she was drawn here? To take the blame? If so, why? Who would send her? How?_

“-son. Stiles!”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm here.”

“Exactly. Why _are_ you here? I thought you were with Scott.”

The words were right, but the tone was off. His dad no longer took the “I'm going to hang with Scott tonight, be back by curfew,” as Gospel anymore. More than anything, Stiles mourned the easy relationship he used to enjoy with his dad.

Perhaps it was this thought in the forefront that made him a little more truthful than normal.

“Was until his _boyfriend_ called.”

The Sheriff's eyebrows rose. “Boyfriend? I thought he was dating the Argent girl.”

“Heh, heh, just kidding Dad. You know, boyfriend like bro-ski, bromanator. No,no, he's not gay. He's not confused sexually, just a giant douche bag who drops me the minute Der-Isaac calls.”

Too late he remembered his dad couldn't know about Derek and so he hoped his substitution of Isaac's name would slide by. Of course the whole reason he was originally hanging out with Scott was directly connected to this murder – and Stiles' brain kinda hurt now. Secrets sucked.

“Isaac, huh? And you just happened to come by here …?”

The Sheriff's skepticism had waned a lot, probably lulled by Stiles' herky-jerky verbal dance. _That,_ at least, was normal.

“No, I called him Sheriff. Allison wasn't picking up her phone and I was – was – scared.”

Lydia piped up in the awkward silence, saving Stiles from lying. Though technically that _was_ the reason why he came: to help Lydia. He had reacted first and thought about possible consequences later because at her call he hadn't known what was going on other than Lydia was in trouble.

“Uh huh. You called Stiles before you called the police?”

“No, she didn't. Though for future reference, Lyds.”

“You should always call the police and never Stiles,” the Sheriff butted in, glaring at him now. Stiles grinned and held up his hands.

“Kidding, Dad. Kidding.”

“Ms. Martin, you probably should go home and let your folks know what's going on.”

Stiles barely kept the snort in, knowing Lydia would kill him if he ever intimated her Mom could care less.

“Thanks, Sheriff, I will.”

“I'll send two deputies with you, just in case.”

Stiles thought it was a little weird for his dad to be so careful especially when he'd decided Lydia wasn't a suspect but an innocent witness.

Just then, the newest deputy, the first female officer in five years, walked up with an unusually grim look on her face.

“The second vic from the Preserve was sent to the hospital for observation, but still no sight of her companion. I've notified the mother of the vic about her daughter's disappearance.”

“Good, good.” His dad scrubbed a hand across his face as he prioritized his evening. “Please let Higgins and Perkins know they're going to escort Ms. Martin home.”

Stiles hoped his poker face had improved and the female officer didn't realize he'd overheard their conversation. The Sheriff was distracted by whatever had happened at the Preserve – _two victims? Were they attacked by Boyd and Cora? Did Derek and the others scare them off?_ \- and didn't notice his son's twitching, which would've tipped him off immediately.

“Also, do we know who this boy is?”

“Not yet, Sheriff, but we're working on it.”

Stiles was curious about what exactly went down in the woods earlier, but also needed to get Lydia away from everyone and interrogate her...erm ask her...what the hell went on prior to her showing up. It was too coincidental for her to find _another_ dead body so soon after all the shenanigans of last year.

“C'mon, Lydia. Let's get you home.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I find extremely funny - on most shows, you rarely see/hear people saying "bye" to each other after ending a phone call. If we all used the same phone etiquette they use on tv, we'd be a much ruder society. I know it's a small thing, but it bothered me enough for me to add my own two cents in how the convo between Scott and Stiles ended (if you remember, you don't actually find out because the scene flows right into the Derek-Scott-Isaac pow-wow).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes a gruesome and terrifying discovery.

Stiles felt more than heard his phone ringer going off and seriously contemplated ignoring whomever was on the other end; he'd complained about how boring his summer was and the Gods had punished him with danger and terror, and almost no down time to process everything going on. He'd finally managed to make it to his bed after seeing Lydia home - and enduring that incredibly tense conversation - and he really didn't want to leave his snug-a-bug position.

_Brrrring. Brrrring. Brrring._

It wasn't anyone's ring tone, but the generic programmed one, so Stiles figured it could wait until he got some shut-eye.

_Brrrring. Brrrring. Brrring._

 "What?"

Stiles figured being forced out of bed and to the phone at 1 A.M. warranted surliness.

"Stiles?"

"Mrs. McCall?"

"Did I wake you?"

"Uh, kinda? What's up? Scott isn't with me, he's still with the pack in the woods."

It was surprisingly refreshing not having to lie to  _every_  adult in his life. At least about this.

"I didn't call you about Scott, though it's sort of related. Can you come to the hospital? You really need to check out the body that was brought in."

"What's going on?"

"Look Stiles, I can't really talk about  _it_  over the phone. It'll be a lot easier for you to come here."

"Why me?"

"Well, Scott  _is_  out in the woods with Derek, so they're both out. Scott said I could trust Dr. Deaton, but honestly, I don't know him very well other than as my son's boss. You, I do. Of course, if you want me to call your father instead..."

It amazing how fast you can get across Beacon Hills when properly motivated. 

Fortunately his somewhat loud entrance into the hospital wasn't seen by anyone but Mrs. McCall. She looked up from the folder on the counter with a relieved smile. It must be good if she looked  _happy_  to see him.

"Hey."

 Her hand curled around his bicep like a claw and Stiles figured he wouldn't be able to get away if she didn't want him to. 

"Hey," he responded somewhat hesitantly. 

"Over here. And if you tell anyone I showed you this, I swear to God I will kill you painfully, slowly."

There were only three things he was scared of, and Mrs. McCall was definitely on the list. He had no doubts she would find a way to not only kill him, but also get away with it. Just like with dogs and Derek, however, it was best not to show fear.

"Why are you showing me a body I've already seen?"

"Because you haven't seen everything."

Dead bodies, contrary to popular belief, looked like meat sacks void of any sentience. There was no "ah, looks like he's sleeping," sort of thing going on; it was even worse when murder or trauma was the cause of death. 

The boy Lydia found was cleaned up and looked even younger than his purported seventeen or eighteen years; his face was pock-marked with acne scars and his upper body was lightly muscled, but otherwise unremarkable. Well except for the gaping wound at his throat of course.

"See this around his neck?" She pointed to his throat. "That's a ligature mark, which means he was strangled with something like a cord, rope ."

Stiles looked closer at the cleaned skin and saw, despite the slice, it wasn't ragged like a bite mark. "Okay, wait a second, what kind of werewolf strangles someone? You know, it's not very werewolf-y."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Erp-"

"And then there's this -" Mrs. McCall showed no compunction about rolling the stiff head (ha. ha. no pun intended) to the side, revealing a gaping hole not intended by God.

"Appp, eeeeahh, srrrr oh man - what is that? Is that brain matter? Yeah, it's brain matter. Of course."

Mrs. McCall looked faintly amused, which was a sentiment out of place considering their location, but Stiles ignored it in favor of trying not to vomit what little food remained in his stomach.

"See the indentation? He was hit in the back of the head hard enough to kill him. In fact, any  _one_  of these things could've killed him! I mean, someone seriously wanted this poor kid dead."

Relief warred with a spiraling fear. "So this couldn't have been Boyd or Cora, you know. They wouldn't have done all that." Well, Boyd wouldn't have. Stiles didn't know Cora so he couldn't wholeheartedly vouch for her. "So maybe this is just one murder? I mean, maybe, this is just a random coincidence." He didn't really believe that, of course, especially in Beacon Hills, but Stiles was willing to be optimistic in this, if nothing else.  The look on Mrs. McCall's face put paid to that thought immediately. 

“I don't think it was just one.” 

How utterly unsurprising and yet terrifying at the same time. “How come?”

“Because that girl over there,” she jerked her head to the right to indicate the covered body behind Stiles, something he'd been trying to ignore since they walked in, “she's got the exact same injuries.”

The oddest thing to happen to Stiles wasn't the golden magic spilling from his fingertips into Scott's tattoo or painting a protective sigil onto Derek's stomach hours before he was nearly eviscerated by his own wolves; no, it was _knowing_ who lay under the sheet. _Knowing_ he hadn't expected her to be alive, not being taken so easily and covertly, not being a student of Deaton's School of Sparking and the son of the Sheriff in a town beset by unnatural murders for the past year and a half. 

“The ME said this one wasn't just strangled, whoever did it used a garrote, which is a stick that you put through the rope and kind of keep twisting.” 

Heather was cold and gray and too young to be lying so motionless on the medical examiner's table, her throat and head looking the same as the boy found at the pool. Now that he knew what to look for, he could tell she too was the victim of the same faceless murderer who'd probably wasn't finished if Stiles' gut feelings were correct. And he'd failed her, failed his oldest friend because he'd allowed his stupid hormones and feelings of inadequacy to cloud his thinking for a brief moment. 

“Stiles?”

He couldn't take his eyes from her face and reassure Mrs. McCall despite the worry in her tone. She knew him for years and probably didn't recognize the look on his face because Stiles was good at covering his deepest emotions so no one could see to his heart. This time, unfortunately, he couldn't keep the despair and self-hatred from showing cleanly as if he were like Scott who couldn't hide his feelings to save his life (or anyone else really).

“Oh my god, did you know her? Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't even think.” 

In a gesture smacking of too little too late, Mrs. McCall drew the sheet over Heather's face as if it would erase the memory of her lifeless corpse from his mind. Stiles parted his lips trying to dredge up the flurry of words to hide behind, but found his tongue tangled and tied with sorrow. Heather was the one who'd stayed beside him when his mother was buried, who held his hand at the grave sight and then again tucked up against him in his narrow bed where he burrowed to avoid the wake. Scott had come over after she'd left and played video games with him to help him keep occupied, but he never forgot the warmth of Heather against his side, her steady breathing and beating heart the only sound loud enough to drown out the screams echoing in his mind. They'd drifted apart after that, differing schools and competing attentions of their ambitions in life, and Stiles hadn't really mourned the loss because in some ways Heather personified his mother's death so it was easy to let her go except for the occasional email or IM.

But not like this. _God, not like this_.

“I was-I was at her party. It was her birthday. Her name was Heather.”

Heather Anne McCauley – he'd always found it kind of ironic he had two friends with similar last names. Moisture brushed his cheeks and Stiles was surprised to find himself crying and quickly wiped his face on the sleeve of his hoody, distantly embarrassed by the show of emotion. He avoided looking at Mrs. McCall because he knew the sad pitiful look on her face would make this tearing sensation in his chest even worse. He suddenly wanted his mother, wanted her arms around him and her lips on the crown of his head as she murmured to him in her faintly accented voice, telling him everything would be better in the morning once the sun had time to rise. 

“Okay we need to call your father 'cause you're a witness.”

_Witness...witness...witness..._

The word triggered something in him, a sixth sense he'd always had but only started developing, and he stared back at the pool boy, staring at his opened throat but remembering his positioning, the odd way his purity ring had remained blood-free despite everything. 

“Stiles?”

Heather had said his name too, not questioning and fearful like Mrs. McCall, but huskily and with sensual intent as she dragged him into her wine cellar for some privacy so she could ask him to divest her of her pesky virginity. 

His ADHD was often a source of frustration and ill-humor for Stiles, yet sometimes he felt blessed, like now, as impressions and facts coalesced into a possible pattern. His father had always said one was an accident, two a coincidence, and three, three was a _pattern_.

“Has anyone else been through here tonight? Any-any bodies or-or even anyone missing?”

“Uh, no no bodies, but um -”

Mrs. McCall looked a little shell-shocked at the rapid flip of his emotions and Stiles felt impatience score him. Yes, he was hurt by the death of his oldest friend, but now he had the possible means to solve her murder so he really wished she would keep up. 

“What?”

“Two girls. They brought the first one, Caitlin, for a tox screen. And then I overheard that her girlfriend Emily just disappeared. I mean, they were out in the woods and -”

“And nobody's found her yet?” Stiles' whole body quivered with nerves as his mind marveled at this new information, seeing how it fit into the rapidly darkening pattern.

“I don't know.”

“K. The first one.”

“Caitlin.”

As if he'd forget her _name_. Her name was important because it would lead to her giving him what he needed.

“Is she here? Is she here right now?”

“I think so.”

Think? _Think?_ Why couldn't Mrs. McCall be suffused with the same _knowing_ he felt traveling through his body in the same manner his magic did sometimes. 

“Okay where?”

It was good to move. Movement meant life. Stasis meant death. Why was Mrs. McCall stopping his momentum?

“Okay, okay just wait a minute.”

Didn't she realize he would go through her if he had to? He didn't want to, being his best friend's mom, but he would. He _would_. 

“I have to talk to her.”

There was worry on her face now as if Stiles wasn't making sense. He was. He _was_.

“Why?”

Because if he was right, Emily was the important one. If he was right, then Caitlin survived because she wasn't a _virgin_ and Emily was.

“Because I think I know what's happening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been splitting the episodes into three chapters, but this one had such depth to it (I loved Stiles' emotional scene and thought Dylan did an brilliant bit of acting) so I've expanded it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melissa and Stiles have a moment.

Emily was, as Stiles had supposed, a virgin before her mysterious disappearance. Despite Caitlin's use of an illicit drug, he had no doubt everything happened exactly as she said, up to and including her sighting of the wolves in the forest. Mrs. McCall and he exchanged glances when she described Scott, both thankful the Sheriff hadn't been as thorough with the witness or as believing. It worried Stiles how close his father was to the supernatural again, as always so close to the truth and danger.

 

“You need to go home now Stiles, get some rest.”

 

They'd stepped outside Caitlin's room, and he slumped against the wall as his brain whirled frantically with all the added data.

 

"I can't...I can't sleep...not if what I'm thinking is true."

 

Threes. Everything came in threes. Three was a magical number present in the  _three_  major world religions - in Christianity it represented the three faces of God, in Judaism the Three Patriarchs of their religion, and in Islamic culture the three holy cities of worship. If monotheistic religions embraced the power of three, why not older, darker times?  _Think, think, think._  

 

“And what _is_ going on? How do _you_ know what it is?”

 

Her words were harsh, but the tone gentle. Stiles knew it was her motherly instinct kicking in. She'd had a hand in raising him too, after all, and was as worried by his demeanor as she was with Scott gallivanting around in the woods. This year was as hard on her as it was on them.

 

“I've been learning from Dr. Deaton. Learning the history of the wolves.”

 

Again, not a lie, but not the _complete_ truth either. This was something else, a tune whose lyrics were on the tip of his tongue; it was maddening how familiar this was feeling, though he could swear he'd never seen anything like it before.  _Remember!_

 

“Why?”

 

His eyes flashed up to hers, an anguished amber against pale clotted cream skin.

 

“Because I can't stand knowing there's _nothing_ I can do to help Scott! I'm useless! I'm not as fast, or strong, or-or indestructible as him!”

 

Mrs. McCall reached out then, gently encircling his wrist with an implacable hold. She was small and fragile and female, but Stiles had never underestimated her strength or iron will, having seen it time and again when necessary to step between danger (both physical and emotional) and her son. _Sons_ , a soft voice reminded him.

 

“Stiles, your existence is what helps Scott. Do you know why I was able to finally accept my son's condition?”

 

They always used code words to speak of werewolf business in public, but Stiles still hated the secrecy sometimes. She made it sound like Scott had an incurable disease instead of a magical gift. No matter how much their lives changed with the bite, a part of Stiles couldn't help the wonder and awe at the knowledge werewolves existed. _They existed!_

 

“Because you're an amazing woman?”

 

Mrs. McCall chuckled lightly at that, her hand shifting so her fingers threaded through Stiles'. It reminded him of when they were smaller and she would hold Scott's hand to cross the street; this persisted until he was nearly twelve. Stiles still didn't know why Scott stopped doing it, but he often wondered if it had something to do with his dad's desertion.

 

“I knew my baby boy couldn't be a monster, _wouldn't_ be a monster, as long as he had you in his corner. You've stood beside him, behind him, and in front of him his entire life and haven't wavered. If you have that courage, then so must I.”

 

Stiles ducked his head as tears pressed against his eyelids again. Crying was unmanly, or so society taught him, but ultimately it wasn't embarrassment that he hid this time, but gratefulness. Grateful that someone else could see _him_ as well as Scott. Lately he really felt as if he were invisible, and he had the fanciful idea that he was Scott's imaginary best friend instead of a real boy.

 

“So are you going home or am I gonna have to call your dad?”

 

“Ahem, ah, yeah, I guess I will. But if you see or hear from Scott before I do...uh...tell him to call, or better yet stop by.”

 

“You'll see him later today at school.”

 

“It's important.”

 

“Will you ever tell me what it is?”

 

Stiles had sufficient time to recover from his emotional moment and gently withdrew his fingers from hers. “I will, but...I need to think about it more. Make sure I'm right before I say anything.”

 

Mrs. McCall was great and all, but ultimately she wasn't _in it_ with them regardless of how understanding and accepting she was now. She wasn't there when it was Scott and him against the Alpha, then Derek and his merry band of feral idiots.

 

A fond smile graced her pretty face. “Night, Stiles.”

 

“Night, Mrs. McCall.”

 

He walked down the hallway and towards the bend in the corridor, conscious of her eyes on his back. Despite her professed affection, spoken in so many words, she knew him well enough to not _exactly_ trust his word. Stiles wasn't offended and was kind of amused by it. Besides, he needed some time with his computer and the spread sheet he needed to start so he could fill in the information he'd gleaned here this (early early) morning.

 

It was the last coherent thought he had as the world melted around him in a sea of reds and violets, punctuated by gut-rending terror and pain.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode never actually shows how Stiles and Scott meet up at the hospital morgue, especially since Scott presumably didn't come over until well after he found Derek still alive and dropped off the unconscious betas. So it's morning by then - I only watched the ep once, so I could be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure it's still supposed to be a school day for them. It's a little weird for Stiles to be hanging out at the hospital all this time waiting on Scott, so this is my reasoning why (to clear up confusion - he's still experiencing everything happening to Derek, so he's feeling everything happening to Derek when Cora and Boyd go to town on him). There will be one more chapter for "Fireflies," before I move onto "Unleashed." Since ep 5&6 ("Frayed" and "Motel California") aren't standalone I'm going to write it as one section instead of splitting them up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Scott have a conversation - but not about what's most important.

"Stiles! Stiles, you need to stop doing that!"

The boy in question fluttered his eyelids as he rose to consciousness, spurred by the half-exasperated, half-worried tone of someone he knew  _very_  well, though right now he couldn't name the person speaking.

"Hmmph?"

"How many times has my mom told you  _not_  to mix Red Bull and your ADHD meds? It's a good way to lead to your heart stopping!"

 _So is having your skin flayed from your bones over and over_ , he mused silently. The voice continued to berate him as Stiles slowly became more aware of his surroundings. The smells around him suggested somewhere clinical and sterile so most likely a hospital or doctor's office, but the starchy sheets beneath his fingertips and the upright bed definitely clinched the hospital angle. Next he sent tendrils of thought throughout his body and was relieved to note nothing more than a cramp in his left calf muscle and right foot, as if he'd seized up against some tremendous force. The feeling of his chest ripped apart and his lungs deflated faded, especially when he investigated the site with his hands.

"Are you even listening to me?"

 _No_ , Stiles admitted, though he wasn't sure if his interrogator could hear him or not.  _I'm just thankful I'm alive._

"Dude, I have stuff to tell you!"

"Cat's Cradle."

"What?"

"She was playing Cat's Cradle."

"Who's "she"?"

_The little girl in the garden with the dead tree in the middle_ _. She wanted me to play with her._

"Stiles! Stiles!"

Hot skin pressed against him, burning him through his t-shirt, and he yelled as he bucked backwards away from the awful touch.

"Dude!"

"Stiles?"

Brown eyes flashed open and stared into bright gold ones inches from his face. He probably should be scared of the inch long canine's extending past the boy's lips, but he wasn't. 

_Why aren't I?_

_Oh, I know him._

"Scott! What the hell man?"

Dark brows pulled into a worried frown melted into slight arches of relief. 

"Are you finally back with me? Mom said you went unconscious about an hour and a half ago. She barely managed to get you here without anyone seeing."

The room she put him in was in the older part of the second floor, as evident by the dim lighting, vacant two occupant room (well, other than him), and grungy tile. Beacon Hills Medical Center had recently gone under renovation when a large sum of money was donated for that purpose. No one knew exactly who had given the money, but Stiles had an inkling of the parties involved. 

“What happened?”

“I dunno dude, you tell me. Mom said you stopped by and discussed the bodies in the morgue and then you started to go home but collapsed in the hallway. You were out cold for a few seconds then snapped to it when she called your name, but were really out of it so she frog-marched you here to recover before returning to her post. As soon as she got you down, you were out again.”

“Heather? What about -”

_Oh. Yeah._

_Face gray, lips blue, body slack. Throat slashed, hole in head, not wolves, something, something else. Think._

“What are you humming?”

“Hmmn?”

“You're humming, Stiles. You never hum.”

Stiles looked away from the earnest face Scott was aiming his way and realized he _was_ humming.

“ _Cat's in the Cradle_.”

“Huh?”

“The song I'm humming is _Cat's in the Cradle_ by Harry Chapin. It was my mom's favorite.”

Both boys froze at his offhand comment. Stiles didn't talk about the deceased Mrs. Stilinski any more than Scott spoke about his deadbeat dad, so it was startling how easy the words fell from his lips.

“Uh, uh, okay.”

Scott fell silent, though his mouth opened a few times as he tried to pick his way through the verbal minefield and get their conversation back on track. Stiles still wasn't feeling wholly himself, but took pity on his befuddled best friend.

“So, what's up?”

_There, that sounded normal._

“Uh, well, we ended up getting help from Allison's dad because we weren't doing so well tracking Boyd and Cora on our own, and we got them to follow us to Beacon High, where we trapped them in the boiler room -”

“Wait. We have a boiler room?”

“Yeah, I know right? Isaac knew about it.”

“Of course he did,” Stiles muttered, a little jealous of Scott's admiring tone. _His_ ideas were often shot down by Scott and only turned to after everything else was exhausted. Of course, the last great idea he had ended up with Scott bitten and turning into a werewolf...so maybe there was a reason. 

Stiles drooped and pressed back against the bed in a small funk.

Scott continued on, either ignoring or ignorant of Stiles' mood. “So, Derek and I were sitting there waiting for daylight, but then I heard a third heartbeat.”

“What?”

He's get back to the whole “daylight” thing with him in a second. A _third_ heartbeat? And Scott heard it, but not Derek?

“Yeah, our new English teacher Ms. Blake was down there.”

“Why was she down there?”

“I guess that's where they keep the supplies for teachers.”

“Okkkaaayyyy...but why was she down there tonight, er, last night? I mean, we've only been back a few days, so how come she's at school so late? We haven't even turned in any assignments yet.”

Scott shrugged. “I dunno, but we had to open the doors. Derek went in there to get her and -”

“Let me guess, got ripped to shreds by Boyd and Cora.”

“How'd you know?”

Stiles just _looked_ at Scott, not even deigning to respond. Regardless of the weird body connection he now apparently shared with Derek, the young Alpha was constantly getting shot, stabbed, or drowned because he jumped in to save somebody. Of course, a lot of it he brought on himself, but the point was still valid.

“Yeah, it's a Derek thing. He held them back from attacking her. Isaac and I went in there once the sun started coming up and he was on his knees covered in blood, but it wasn't that bad actually.”

Stiles remembered the feeling of raw shredded flesh hanging there, a moment when he could see his insides as clearly as he could see Scott now. It was a surreal and entirely terrifying experience – and Derek experienced it over and over in his short life. Werewolf healing was great and all, but it still didn't take away the knowledge your body was being torn apart. Little wonder the dude was so snarly.

“What significance does the sun coming up have?”

“Oh,” Scott looked a little uncomfortable“Um, it's a werewolf thing.”

“Yeah, I figured _that_ one out.” Stiles sighed theatrically then slowly straightened when Scott didn't continue. “Wait, are you not telling me because it's a _werewolf thing_ and I'm human so I can't know?”

Scott's “No,” was less than believable.

“Dude! Who's been there since the beginning? Who _trained_ you when you wouldn't accept Derek's help? Who's had your back since the day we met?”

“Stiles -”

“No, don't _Stiles_ me, Scott! I deserve to know. I'm human, yes, but that doesn't stop me from saving your werewolf ass.”

“Dude, it's not like that. I just don't want you to get involved! I mean, look at you, you're overdosing on your meds again to stay up and research! I don't want you _hurt.”_

The last bit was roared more than said, Scott's emotions overwhelming him to the point he wolfed out, the brown hair sprouting as teeth and claws elongated, distorting his face.

“Whoa, Scott. Buddy. Calm down.”

Stiles knew Scott needed touch to anchor him when Allison wasn't around for him to sense, so he slowly put his hand out on his best friend's shoulder to settle him. Both drew back in shock when electricity seemed to spark between them, sending a small current down Scott's arm to his hand. Surprise revealed his human features as he stared at Stiles in consternation.

“What was that?”

“Damn static electricity!” Stiles chuckled nervously, aware he was being hypocritical by trying to deflect Scott from the truth rather than just saying it, but he needed to wrap his head around what was going on before he could explain it.

“Huh, weird.”

“You okay buddy?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott started pacing back and forth at the bedside until Stiles felt dizzy and anxious just looking at him. Closing his eyes, he slid off the edge and stood, relieved his shoes were still on.

“Look Scott, I know this is dangerous, but I've been in it since the beginning. Don't leave me out now. Please.”

“Fine! Just, you just gotta promise me that you won't mess with your meds. I mean it.”

It was an easy promise to make and keep because that wasn't what was going on, but damned if Stiles could tell him.

“C'mon, lets go to the morgue. I have some things I gotta show you. There is so much more going on than just the Alpha Pack, Scott. So much more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to bring them to the morgue and have that scene play out, but ultimately I felt it was more important to give them a little moment together since they didn't really have any this episode. This is the end for my interpretation of this episode and will continue to the next.


End file.
